honest words about religion, scripture and life

Author: Teri

What follows is my sermon delivered at the Monmouth College Christmas concert and worship service.

[A spot light is turned on me, the rest of the chapel is dark.]

Wow. I can’t see a thing. It’s so dark out there. I mean I know you’re there—I can hear you breathing, and shifting in your seats, and laughing….but it’s creepy because I can’t see you.

You know what’s creepier, though? To be in this chapel alone…at night…without any light. I’ve had to come in here sometimes at night and crawl through the pitch black, in heels no less, to get to the light switch behind the stage. If I were smart, I wouldn’t rush that walk through the darkness, because I’m clumsy, and sure to trip over something or walk into a wall. But I want to get to that light switch as quick as possible. All my life I’ve been conditioned to believe bad things happen in the dark—Edgar Allen Poe things. Every horror movie I have never watched is set in the dark. Every monster jumps out from under the bed after the lights go out. It’s scary here in the dark.

Isaiah 9: 2-7 is read by Christians at Christmas because of its reference to the birth of a baby, born to save a people. But tonight I want to focus on the darkness inherent in this text. The monsters the Israelites were facing were real—the yoke of foreign oppression; the boots and blood of war. It was not just a dark time, according to Isaiah, but deeply dark.

Our historical context is far from that of the 8th century, but Isaiah’s words still resonate today. I mean, can you remember a darker Christmas than this? Maybe you can. But this season, to me, seems particularly bleak: our nation entrenched in deep, unyielding differences; children separated from their parents at the border; tear gas and rubber bullets used against refugees; the #MeToo movement revealing what we women already knew; hateful, destructive rhetoric; endless mass shootings; wildfires raging; our environment degrading. Then, here in Monmouth we’ve got Thanksgiving blizzards dangerously stranding students on the road, friends and loved ones struggling with their mental health—suicide, dementia, cancer, marriages and families breaking under stress—seriously, our list of dark things could go on and on.

Dear God, I pray every day, save us from the darkness. I want to move through the pitch black as quickly as I can, even in heels, because it scares me. Maybe you’re scared too?

In her book, Learning to Walk in the Dark, Barbara Brown Taylor writes that “70 percent of our sense receptors are located in our eyes. Those of us who can see rely heavily on our sight.” Darkness is disorienting. It frightens us because we don’t know what to expect of the dark, we don’t know where we are going when we are in its midst, what we will find, or what will find us.

Here in the darkness, though, the prophet Isaiah wants us to slow down; he wants us to give our eyes time to adjust. Even while walking in darkness—he says—there is something to see.

I was recently introduced to contemporary artist James Turrell who uses darkness as his medium. In an essay entitled, “In Praise of Darkness” Heather Lanier describes one of Turrell’s exhibits at a museum in Massachusetts. “You enter,” Lanier writes, “by stepping into a narrow corridor—the only source of light is behind you—which quickly turns 180 degrees to the right. As you get farther along, the walls must be painted black because now the darkness is nearly complete. If you go with children, this is when they’ll start to grasp your hand tighter. If you go alone, this is when you might seek out the handrail, flu season or not. You’ll feel the handrail bend, and you’ll let it guide you through another 180-degree turn. The darkness at this point becomes thick, almost palpable, and if you’re like me, you’ll put your hand out in front of you because you’re certain you’re about to walk into a wall. You’ll follow the handrail until you reach its end, at which point you will have no sense that the space has just opened up into a room. Your hand will eventually find an armrest, which means you’ve arrived at the viewing chair. You sit and wait in the blackness. It can take as long as 15 minutes for the irises to open sufficiently to perceive this work.”

In a James Turrell exhibit, what helps you follow that handrail into the darkness and sit in the black room long enough for your eyes to adjust is the belief that there is something there—something good and beautiful. You just need to give yourself a little time—you just need to be patient enough and courageous enough to sit in the dark in order to see it. But that’s not easy. Lanier described two college age women who stumbled into the exhibit with her, linking elbows. Standing at the entryway, they whispered that they couldn’t see a thing and refused to take another step. Then one of them drew something from her back pocket, and in an instant the stark light of her cell phone lit up their faces.

Isaiah wants us to know, and believe, that the darkness hold promise, that the darkness is not dark to God, that art and beauty, meaning and purpose can be found even in the bleakest of circumstances. This is, after all, the message of Christmas. When all that surrounds us feels like death, new life is born. When hate is on the rise, love prevails. When darkness blinds, light illuminates. God is not absent in the darkness. Beauty and meaning are not absent in the darkness. The key is to believe—that something is there—something is here for us—something good and beautiful. Then being patient enough and courageous enough to give our eyes time to adjust.

Eventually, in the Turrell exhibit the art emerges. Heather Lanier describes it as, “A faint, gray amorphous source of light. It’s so faint [at first] you might not be able to place its shape. Circle? Oval? Blob? It’s like a reflection of a reflection of light, like a moon of a moon, like a gray lake’s mirroring of a dulled silver spoon. The art you eventually arrive at varies, according to who you are and how you view the world. But if you wait long enough, there is actually something there.

If we wait long enough and let our eyes adjust something is there…something emerges…

Maybe it’s the dark silhouettes of the people sitting around you, reminding you that you are not alone.

Maybe it’s the exposed wooden beams of this Chapel ceiling, appearing as arms outstretched drawing us closer together as one community.

Maybe it’s a darkness so large and unfathomable that it takes the shape of God.[1]

Maybe it’s a light we hadn’t noticed before.

What we see will vary according to who we are and how we view the world. But the darkness holds something for us all.

Wendell Berry writes:

To know the dark, go dark.
Go without sight, and find
that the dark, too, blooms and sings.

For Isaiah, the darkness blooms and sings about the birth of a child. God has not forsaken you, Isaiah declares. God has not abandoned you in the darkness. Tonight, let us give ourselves a gift. Let us sit in our viewing chairs, give our irises the time they need to open, and receive what the darkness holds for us tonight. It might…it just might…give us hope.

Now to the God who calls us to this night vision, be all honor and glory, thanksgiving and power, now and forevermore. Amen.

[1]This phrase attributed to Sara Miles from her recent Christian Century lecture.

Share this:

Like this:

I dreamed about Brett Kavanaugh the night after he was confirmed as our newest Supreme Court Justice and President Trump apologized to him on behalf of us all. My dream was vivid in detail. Judge Kavanaugh had grown his hair long and was sitting, open-robed, among the other justices, smoking a cigarette, a large gold medal strung around his neck on a royal blue ribbon.

As I dream, my feelings—about white male entitlement, a patriarchal system that promotes those of the wrong temperament, a society that doesn’t believe women like Dr. Christine Blasey Ford or #MeToo—betray me. Last week was long and difficult. How does one bounce back from a week like that?

Thumbing through my books in search of words that might offer me a renewed sense of purpose, some reason to keep on keeping on, I came across this:

…And right action is freedomFrom past and future also.For most of us, this is the aimNever here to be realized;Who are only undefeatedBecause we have gone on trying…

T.S. Eliot

Keep on trying, for our daughters and our daughter’s daughters and all the daughters of God who, made in Her image, deserve better than this.

Share this:

Like this:

The homeless are not afraid
to miss something.
What passes through their eyes
is how the clouds pass over the rushing cars,
the way pigeons miss some of the seeds
on the road and move away.
Yet only they know
what it means to have a home
and to return to it.

During my morning practice of reading and a savoring a poem, this stanza gave me pause. The “knowing” of the homeless Mikhail writes about is not a knowing we would envy. The homeless know what it means to have a home because they miss having one. But the “knowing” of this poem made me instantly grateful for my home, my life, the bed I sleep in each night.

I’ve been writing a lot this summer. I haven’t posted as much on this blog because I’ve been carefully crafting a book proposal that I’m hoping will turn into my first book. The book is about the “knowing” to which I have been led by people whose lives are wholly different than my own—prisoners, immigrants, LGBTQ+, persons of color. I should add the homeless. As a white woman of privilege I don’t know what their lives are like—in fact I am quite blind to and ignorant of this knowledge. But I can know. And I should. Because from knowing grows understanding. And understanding builds relationships. And when we are in relationship with each other we can begin to meet the needs of those who, for far too long, have been pushed aside by society.

“What does this mean?” Yo-Yo Ma pauses to ask. “How do you get from A to B? Do you glide into the next note, is it a smooth transfer, or do you have to reach—physically, mentally or effortfully to go from one note to the next? Could the next note be part of the first note? Or could the next note be a different universe? Have you just crossed some amazing boundary and suddenly the next note is a revelation?”

Making music is infinitely complex. It takes mental and emotional and spiritual investment. A meaningful life requires the same.

As much as we would like it to, life never stands still. I am halfway through a summer where I have spent some blessed downtime focusing on my first book project. The thought of the academic year beginning in a few short weeks makes my heart heavy. But Yo-Yo Ma has made me pause here to ask, “How do I move from one note of life to the next?”

In Psalm 98 the Israelites are encouraged to “sing a new song” while living in exile. They were far from home, living in a foreign land with strange new foreign ways. It was a painful, uncomfortable time. Yet the psalmist encouraged them to sing. Find your way to the next note, I imagine the Psalmist advising, and, find the way your notes connect to make your song.

According to the psalmist, we each have a song to sing. Knowing this can be a comfort in the in between times when we find ourselves stretched, uncomfortable, depressed, or grieved. Our lives have meaning and purpose, but how we make our way from one note of life to the next determines the melody we make. It would serve us well, then, to lean in and listen; to be intentional in the in between times; to find our way with purpose, confident that our notes will eventually connect in a song that only we are meant to sing.

Share this:

Like this:

Dr. Shinichi Suzuki of Japan is famous for developing a unique method of teaching music to children. Suzuki’s method immerses children in music from a very young age and teaches them to listen for the phrasing, expression, notes and beauty. Suzuki children also learn music in partnership with their parent.

This week we are attending the Chicago Suzuki Institute—our daughter plays cello and our son, piano. Suzuki teachers are known for their patience and kindness. With all the ugliness in the world today, being around all this compassion and kindness has been a wonderful respite. I’ve also been amazed that the instruction my children are receiving this week teaches life philosophies that are good for us all.

Dr. Suzuki’s goal was not just to teach children music, but to build a better human being. Suzuki himself said, “If a child hears fine music from the day of his birth and learns to play it himself, he develops sensitivity, discipline and endurance. He gets a beautiful heart.” Dr. Suzuki spent a lot of time setting up a student before they play, making sure they have the proper posture, that the foundation of their feet and back are ready to support them. Every child deserves such patient, foundation-building.

Mr. Krigger’s Class

My daughter attends Mr. Krigger’s “Music & Movement” class. I adore Mr. Krigger. He may be my most favorite human being. He can control a room full of dancing, jiggling toddlers with the sound of his cello, his balloon animals and Mr. Krigger’s rules, a few of which are:

Listen.

If someone is not sharing the sound say, “Excuse me, but would you please share the sound?”

Respect each other’s bubble of space.

If you step on your neighbor, stop and say, “I’m sorry.”

“Why do you come to class?” Mr. Krigger asks. All his children know to respond, “To help each other and make a beautiful sound.”

Ms. Tio, my son’s piano teacher advises him to make his presence felt, to express himself through the piano. “Do you know there is power in your sound?” she asks. “If you express yourself in a beautiful way your audience will be spellbound.”

Learning along with my children this week has reminded me that, in spite of horrific headlines, expressions of beauty are still evident in our world. Yes, we need more kindness, patience, and compassionate foundation-building, but witnessing these children at work gives me hope that we can help each other and make a beautiful, powerful sound.

Share this:

Like this:

I took this picture while contemplating Tillich on a walk near my home.

A week of study leave has me returning to read one of my favorite twentieth century theologians, Paul Tillich, and his book Dynamics of Faith. Tillich was devastated by what he experienced in World War I as an army chaplain. In war’s aftermath, his work sought to address the emptiness and anxiety of meaningless people felt. He was a humanist and a lover of literature, poetry and art—which is probably why he is my favorite. Tillich speaks of God in language like no other; his words are lyrical, poetic and hopeful. Turning to Tillich today, it is eerie to resonate with a man’s words about Nazi Germany, the idolatry of nationalism, and all its consequences.

Tillich defines faith as the “state of being ultimately concerned.” We, as human beings, have faith in many things—faith in family, money, education, institutions, the strength of our military, our nation. Tillich’s definition, though, raises the question of what is the “ultimate” or final state of our faith? What have we placed on top? Whatever we humans prioritize as our ultimate concern influences everything else.

For instance, Tillich writes:

If a national group makes the life and growth of the nation its ultimate concern, it demands that all other concerns, economic well-being, health and life, family aesthetic and cognitive truth, justice and humanity, be sacrificed.

Our nation’s new isolationist mantra, “Make America Great Again,” comes to mind as I read this warning from Tillich with the sacrifices of truth, justice and humanity playing out daily in the news. I, like many of you, am at a loss for what to do about this evil except find ways to recognize, address and overcome the seeds of isolationism, racism and white supremacy within myself and actively resist it in the society of which I am a part.

In light of this week’s news of children separated from their parents and locked in detention centers along our Southern border and the U.S. backing out of the United Nations Human Rights Council, my prayer is that we, as a nation, might give ourselves to something larger and higher than our own or our nation’s welfare—something more like Jesus’ ultimate concern from Luke 10, that leads to life, rather than tragedy, injustice and death.

You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself. Do this, and you will live.

Luke 10:27-28

Share this:

Like this:

Rev. Shannon Johnson Kershner was Monmouth College’s 2018 Baccalaureate Preacher. Shannon was called to be the pastor of Chicago’s iconic Fourth Presbyterian Church in March of 2014. Ever since hearing this news, I have been cheering for Shannon and celebrating her success. Very few women serve as senior pastors of churches over 5,000 members. With amazing grace and extraordinary talent, Shannon has broken what we women clergy refer to as the “stained-glass ceiling” in church leadership.”

While she was on campus, I interviewed Shannon on our college’s radio station. I asked her about her religious and spiritual upbringing, how it feels to be a breaker of ‘stained-glass ceilings’, and what advice she had for our new graduates. The interview, like Shannon herself, was full of grace.

In her Baccalaureate sermon, Shannon reflected on Paul’s words from 2 Corinthians 4:7 “But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us.” “We are all just a bunch of cracked pots,” Shannon told our graduates, “cheap jars, fragile and porous.”

“Clay jars in Paul’s day” Shannon went on to explain, “were the most imperfect vessel one could choose. Whatever one was carrying would just spill all over the place because those vessels were literally cracked pots. They were absolutely inefficient and a bad choice for carrying anything valuable. Any yet it is precisely into our cracked pot selves that God has purposely chosen to place the treasure of God’s grace and the promise of of God’s healing and wholeness for the world.”

Shannon appreciates this description of us as clay jars because “it acknowledges the truth that none of us has it all together. Nor should we ever expect to. This verse gives me some breathing space. The Good News is that we do indeed contain a treasure, but it is rooted in something much larger than ourselves. The world’s healing and justice does not just rest on our shoulders. God’s got you and God will work through our cracks and imperfections to shed extraordinary light on the world.”